


The Good Old Days

by Sauronix



Category: Suikoden V
Genre: Early Days, Friendship, Gen, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:44:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: When Roog and Rahal first meet, they don't exactly get along.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tomatorevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomatorevolution/gifts).



**FIFTEEN**

  
“Hey, asshole.”  
  
Rahal stiffens, his heart leaping in his chest. He knows that voice. It’s the last voice he wants to hear. He’s alone in the stables, well away from the main camp. Out here, there’s no one near enough to hear him call for help. He knows, when he turns, that he’ll see Roog’s face, probably twisted in rage. His fists, probably balled at his sides, itching to hit him.  
  
He’s not wrong. The only thing he didn’t account for is the posse Roog’s brought with him. They fan out behind their leader, blocking Rahal’s exit. One of them winks at him, grinning, chewing on a long sprig of grass, when Rahal meets his eye. Rahal looks away quickly, returns his gaze to Roog’s face, which is the only one of the lot that really matters. It’s the most immediate threat.  
  
“You ratted me out to the Commander,” Roog accuses, shoving him against the far wall of Flail’s pen. He crowds in, filling the already cramped space. Rahal’s never noticed this, at least not consciously, but Roog is huge for a fourteen-year-old, big bones wrapped in muscle wrapped in baby fat. “Now I’m on crap-shovelling duty for the next month. How’s that fair?”  
  
Rahal swallows hard, steeling his voice before he answers. If there’s one thing he’ll never do, it’s bend to Roog. “Commander Laden’s punishment always fits the crime. He’s made it clear that gambling is forbidden in the Dragon Cavalry.”  
  
Roog places a hand on the wall next to Rahal’s head and leans in. It takes everything Rahal has not to recoil. “Everyone bets on the damn races,” Roog says. “You could’ve kept your big fat mouth shut for once. But you’re too busy lickin’ the Commander’s butt crack to think about anyone but yourself.”  
  
The other boys laugh. Rahal flushes, his entire scalp prickling with heat. “I do not—”  
  
“Shut up. Did I say you could talk?”  
  
Rahal shakes his head.  
  
“The only thing I wanna hear from you is what you plan to do about it.”  
  
Rahal frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
Roog grabs the front of Rahal’s shirt and jerks him forward, bringing them nose to nose. “I mean what are you gonna do to get me out of it, dumbass?”  
  
“Nothing.” Rahal clenches his jaw, refusing to break eye contact. In the dim, dusky light, Roog’s irises look like two black pools. “You flouted the rules. Now you have to pay for it. That’s how this works.”  
  
“You piece of—”  
  
“What’s going on here?” An authoritative voice, a man’s voice, cuts into the tension, pausing Roog’s fist before he has the chance to raise it. Roog’s gang scatters. Roog turns, and over his shoulder, Rahal sees Captain Harun standing in the open doorway of the pen, his arms folded across his barrel chest. “Roog? Is there a problem?” he demands.  
  
Slowly, Roog releases Rahal, wrinkles his nose, and wipes his palms on his pants, as if he’s just finished handling a pile of vomit.  
  
“No, Captain,” he says, his cold gaze trained on Rahal’s face. He raises one eyebrow—a threat? “We were just talking.”  
  
“Well, move it along,” Harun says, jerking his thumb at the stable doors. “Your unit has a drill early in the morning. You should be thinking about getting to bed.”  
  
“Yes, Captain,” Roog says.  
  
With a final sneer, he straightens his jacket, turns on his heel, and strides from the pen. For a moment, Harun watches him go, his fingers drumming absently on his arm, before he turns back to Rahal.  
  
“Is there a problem?” he asks again.  
  
Rahal shakes his head. He may be a snitch, but he doesn’t need the Captain’s protection. “No, Captain. Not at all.”  
  
Still, his knees are trembling.

  
*

  
He thought that would be the end of it, but it turns out Roog’s not done with him. After three days of darting into empty tents and hiding around corners to avoid Roog and his friends, his luck runs out. It’s just before sundown when they grab him. They drag him behind the supply tent at the far end of the camp. Two of them restrain him by the arms, one with a hand clapped over his mouth to silence him, and as much as he struggles, he can’t break free.  
  
Roog is there, dressed in his brown boots, riding trousers, and a white linen shirt. He’s shed his jacket. He folds his arms and smirks as he watches Rahal squirm.  
  
“Captain Harun—” Rahal begins, as soon as the hand releases his mouth.  
  
“Doesn’t know crap about this,” Roog snaps. “And you’re not gonna tell him anything. Are you?”  
  
“What do you want from me?”  
  
“I want to finish what we started.” Roog looks past Rahal, at the boys holding him, and grins. The sight of it puts a chill down Rahal’s spine. “Maybe take Mister Perfect down a few pegs.”  
  
Desperately, Rahal throws an elbow at the boy on his left. He meets empty air. The three of them laugh, and the hands on his arms dig deeper into his flesh, into his muscle, holding him still.  
  
“If you think the Commander was hard on you for gambling, how do you think he’s going to react when he finds out you attacked a fellow cadet?” he demands.  
  
Roog approaches him, rolling up his sleeves. “He’s not gonna find out because you’re not gonna tell him who did it.”  
  
“Are you sure about that?”  
  
Roog jabs a fist into Rahal’s gut. Rahal doubles over, gasping for air.  
  
“Pretty sure,” Roog says, flexing his fingers.  
  
“This won’t change anything,” Rahal says, when he can breathe again.  
  
Roog shrugs. “Nah, but it’ll make me feel better.”  
  
He coils for another strike, and Rahal turns his focus inward, drawing all his energy into the rune he had embedded in his left hand just last week. The magic crackles through his veins, tingles in his fingertips. It’s more powerful than he expected; he’s never used the rune before, has only just begun his training. Around them, the air goes still and humid, and above, the clouds darken. The hands on his arms slacken, but don’t entirely fall away.  
  
The boys are nervous. They’re standing so close he can feel the tension in their bodies. And before him, Roog has faltered. His fist drops to his side. His wide brown eyes search the sky.  
  
“What are you doing?” he asks.  
  
The power inside Rahal crests, hums in his veins, so wild that for one panicked instant, he fears it’s going to pull him under. His brain rebels. It pushes out, like a trapped animal throwing itself against the walls of its pen, forcing the magic from him. A bolt of lighting splits the atmosphere and rockets into the ground behind Rahal. The boys holding him scatter, yelping.  
  
Rahal doesn’t wait around for Roog’s reaction.  
  
He runs.

  
*

  
Later, when the headache subsides and his heart resumes its normal rhythm, he has the runesmith extract the magic from him.

  
**SIXTEEN**

  
It’s in Sauronix, during a week of leave, that Rahal sees the first suggestion of vulnerability.  
  
He’s walking from Flail’s pen when, in the late afternoon sunlight, he sees Roog sitting at the end of the wharf, his toes dangling in the river, his beefy shoulders wracked with quiet sobs. Rahal hesitates, watching him. It’s like he’s the only one who’s noticed. The other cadets swirl around them, chattering away, oblivious of the sorrow unfolding just feet from where they’re walking. Should he approach? Offer comfort?  
  
Roog would probably hate that.  
  
Before he realizes what he’s done, he’s standing beside Roog, laying a hand on his shoulder. Roog jerks away as if Rahal is a wasp and his hand, a stinger.  
  
“Are you all right?” Rahal asks softly.  
  
For a moment, Roog stares at him, startled. But then his tear-streaked face creases in anger. “Get the hell away from me.”  
  
“I just wanted—”  
  
Roog scrambles to his feet, pushes Rahal hard in the chest. “Are you stupid? I said go away!” When Rahal doesn’t move, he shoves him again, with enough force to knock Rahal off his feet. “Get outta here!”  
  
Now, everyone is looking at them. Not that he blames them. They’re probably expecting a fight. Probably desperate for one. It’s been weeks since a pair of cadets got into a scuffle. Rahal glances at them, then looks again at Roog, taking in his clenched fists and the tight, rigid set of his shoulders.  
  
“My mistake,” he says, holding up his hands in a gesture of submission.  
  
“Fuck off,” Roog says.  
  
He crosses his arms and turns away, turns his gaze back to the river, as if he’s already forgotten Rahal exists.  
  
Strange, Rahal thinks as he makes his retreat. Roog has never been one to back down from a fight.

  
**SEVENTEEN**

  
It’s not long before the Commander gets wind of the animosity between them.  
  
He calls them into his office after drills and makes them stand side by side across his desk. They’re both sweaty and red-faced from exertion. There’s a steady, painful throbbing in Rahal’s left temple. He’s not in the mood for a lecture from the Commander; what he wants is a glass of water, a solid meal, and a hot bath.  
  
What he wants is to get away from Roog.  
  
The Commander steeples his fingers and studies them, his booted feet propped up on the desk. Golden light from the setting sun spills through the window behind him, casting him in silhouette, rendering his face unreadable.  
  
“I hear you two have been at each other’s throats,” he finally says.  
  
Roog crosses his arms and glares at Rahal. “It’s his fault.”  
  
Rahal doesn’t say anything, just returns the glare with one of his own. Roog can sulk all he wants, but Rahal isn’t about to make an ass of himself, least of all in front of the Commander. He drags his eyes back to Craig, his mouth opening to respond, but Craig’s already leaning across the desk toward them.  
  
“I don’t care whose fault it is.” He stabs the top of the desk with one finger. “It stops now. You’re old enough to be setting an example for the younger recruits. What, exactly, is the problem?”  
  
Roog looks away and mutters, “Nothing.”  
  
The Commander turns to Rahal for an explanation, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“I don’t know, Commander,” he replies. “Roog has some kind of vendetta against me—”  
  
Roog scoffs. “Vendetta?”  
  
“Are you going to deny it?”  
  
“You’re damn right I am.”  
  
“Enough!” They both go quiet and look at Craig. He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “The Dragon Cavalry is built on brotherhood. You need to trust each other. Protect each other. If you can’t do that, you’ll never make it as Cavalrymen.”  
  
“But Commander—” Roog begins.  
  
“I am reassigning you as partners for the rest of your training,” the Commander says. At that, even Rahal starts to protest, but the Commander holds up his hand. “There will be no arguments. There will be no excuses. You are both promising cadets. You don’t have to like each other, but you will learn to work together.”  
  
“Commander, please,” Roog says, “anyone but him.”  
  
“I said no arguments, Roog. If you don’t do this, you will be expelled from the Cavalry. Am I clear?” He watches them soberly as they both nod, reluctant. “Whatever problems you may have with each other, sort them out.”

  
  
**EIGHTEEN**

  
Everything about Roog annoys him. The way he speaks with his mouth full. How he brays like an ass when he laughs. His crass, liberal use of language.  
  
Most of all, he hates the way Roog belittles his superior intellect, his reliance on brain over brawn. With Roog, everything is about force, about bullying his opponent into submission. There’s power in that muscled body, but there’s no grace. There's no consideration of tactics, no inkling that the decisive placement of a single chess piece can be more effective than a drawn sword.  
  
That, and he stinks. Rahal’s had his head locked under Roog’s armpit enough times during this training drill to know that.  
  
When Captain Harun blows his whistle, they push apart. Rahal wipes his face on his sleeve, eyeing Roog warily across the few yards of grass that separate them. Roog eyes him back, the front of his shirt dark with sweat.  
  
“Last round,” Harun bellows, holding up his whistle. “Take your positions. And this time, give it everything you’ve got. On my signal.”  
  
Rahal plants his feet, leans forward, places his hands on Roog’s shoulders. Roog mirrors his actions. Their foreheads touch. Neither says a word. They’re both waiting for the blast of the whistle, the signal to take each other down, to grapple the other into submission. Rahal already knows Roog’s going to win. He always wins at wrestling. He’s subdued Rahal six times today. All Rahal can do now is dig in his heels and make Roog work for his victory.  
  
The whistle shrills.  
  
Rahal staggers as Roog throws his weight forward. Strong arms lock around him and twist, dropping him hard onto his side. He rolls to his stomach, tries to push himself up onto his knees, but a kick in the back flattens him again. He grunts as he slams face-first into the dirt.  
  
“Roog,” Harun says sharply. “Don’t make me discipline you.”  
  
“Sorry, Captain,” Roog says, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Won’t happen again.”  
  
“Start over. And do it right this time,” Harun says.  
  
Rahal scrambles to his feet and spits the dust from his mouth. Already, Roog has slipped into a guard, his hands raised in front of him. Rahal watches him warily as he takes one step to his left, then another, circling him. Normally, Roog is easy to read, but here on the field, intuition is useless.  
  
When Roog barrels into him, it throws him right out of the ring. His lies sprawled on the grass, breathing hard, wincing at the shooting pain in his ribs. As Roog swaggers over to admire his handwork, their eyes meet.  
  
There’s hatred in Roog’s gaze. Honest, raw hatred.  
  
Rahal returns it with all the disgust he can muster.

  
*

  
For their final exam, they’re assigned to a remote stretch of beach along the Feitas River, almost ninety miles northwest of Port Spinacks. _Your task is to survive for three days and three nights_ , the Commander had said, _with nothing more than a knife, a tent, and a change of clothes each_. What he didn’t say, of course, is that they’ll have to rely on each other—and only each other—to get through this test alive. Their fellow cadets have been assigned to other corners of the wilderness.  
  
When they arrive, it’s late afternoon. Rahal reins Flail to a halt and surveys the area. Their campsite—the strip of beach where they are to lay down their heads—is blanketed in soft, pristine sand. Across the river, a thick growth of trees borders the north bank. Golden shafts of sunlight glimmer on the calm surface near the shore, but beyond it, the water rushes and churns.  
  
Roog silently reins in next to him and dismounts. He throws his bundle of fresh clothing onto the ground, followed by the canvas they are to use to make their tent. Annoyed, Rahal watches him, wishing for the hundredth time that the Commander had assigned him to someone else. Someone less surly, less volatile, and certainly less cavalier about their shelter.  
  
“Well?” Roog says, glowering at him. “Are you going to sit there all day, or are you going to get down here and help me out?”  
  
“There’s no need to throw a tantrum,” Rahal says, but he swings out of the saddle all the same.  
  
“I’m not throwing a tantrum,” Roog shoots back.  
  
“Oh?” Rahal unhooks the pack that contains his change of clothes from Flail’s saddle and sets it down at his feet. “You could have fooled me. You’re practically stamping your feet.”  
  
“Dealing with you is a pain in the ass.”  
  
Rahal shakes his head, dropping a bundle of tent poles into the sand. “I could say the same.”  
  
“You’re such a smug asshole.”  
  
Rahal doesn’t know what possesses him. Maybe it’s that something inside him has finally snapped. Maybe the spark of rebelliousness he’s long since buried finally catches flame. Whatever it is, he acts almost without thinking. He snatches up Roog’s bundle of clothes and marches over to the river. Without ceremony, he tosses it into the rapids.  
  
“Hey!” Roog shouts. “What the hell!”  
  
Roog pushes past him and wades into the river, chasing the bundle, but the current is too fast. He gives up when he’s waist-deep, hands on his head in dismay, and watches as his clothes are swept upstream. After a minute, he turns back to Rahal, red-faced. “What the hell is wrong with you?”  
  
“You’re annoying me,” Rahal says, unrolling the bundle of tent poles at his feet.  
  
“Annoying you?” Roog charges out of the water. He’s in Rahal’s face before Rahal can blink, shoving him in the chest. He loves to shove, Rahal’s noticed. “What the fuck am I supposed to wear for the next three days?”  
  
Rahal shrugs and takes the second roll of poles from Flail’s saddle. “That’s for you to figure out.”  
  
Roog tears a pole from the bundle Rahal’s holding, knocking the rest to the ground with a clatter. “I’m gonna kill you.”  
  
Rahal’s pulse rises. He looks at the pole in Roog’s hands, then at Roog’s scowling face, forcing his own to stay impassive. “I can’t imagine the Commander would be very happy about that.”  
  
“Fuck the Commander.” Roog steps forward with a white-knuckled grip on the pole, his teeth bared. “I’ve wanted to kick your ass for three years. You think you’re so much better than everyone else, huh? Let’s see how good you look with a bloody nose and a black eye.”  
  
Rahal doesn’t back down. Roog’s bigger than he is, bigger by far, and probably strong enough to beat Rahal to death if he really makes the effort. But confidence is as powerful a weapon as brute force. It’s what’s gotten Rahal—willowy Rahal, more thinker than fighter—this far in a world of born warriors.  
  
Instead, he cocks his head, looks Roog square in the eye, and asks, “Why do you hate me?”  
  
“You know why.”  
  
Rahal shakes his head. “I really don’t.”  
  
“I’ll give you a hint. It’s because you can’t mind your own gods-damned business.”  
  
It dawns on him then. “The gambling. It’s because I told the Commander about your bets.” Another beat of silence, his eyes locked on Roog’s crimson face, before he adds, “But that was three years ago.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a grudge,” Roog snaps.  
  
But that can’t be all. It doesn’t make sense. In the early days, before the Cavalry’s rigorous training forged a bond between the recruits, there were others who tattled on Roog. Some for worse moral offenses than gambling—things like sneaking out of Gordius to visit the brothels at Port Spinacks, no matter how unsuccessfully. Things like stealing food from the mess tent and stashing it away for a late-night snack.  
  
But Roog never hated those boys the way he hates Rahal. This animosity borders on obsession.  
  
“Is it because I saw you crying on the dock?” he says softly. It’s been two years since that day, but the memory of Roog’s shoulders shuddering helplessly won’t leave him. That he glimpsed such vulnerability from someone who always tried to be so tough—maybe that’s why Roog can’t stand him.  
  
The tent pole breaks in half in Roog’s hands. “Shut up!”  
  
“Why were you crying?” Rahal asks.  
  
“I said shut up!” Roog screams.  
  
He punches Rahal in the jaw. The force of it snaps Rahal’s head back, and he falls against Flail, just barely grabbing onto her saddle in time to keep himself upright. She gronks at him in alarm.  
  
Rahal licks the coppery blood from his split lip and looks at Roog. He’s breathing heavily, his chin trembling, his hands still balled at his sides, but the fire is gone from his eyes. No—he can’t even seem to meet Rahal’s gaze.  
  
Another beat of silence passes. And then he storms past Rahal, down the strip of beach, into the tangle of trees to the north.

  
*

  
Roog returns at dusk, after Rahal’s gotten a fire going. He plops down in the sand, cross-legged, and rests his elbows on his knees. At first, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the ring of stones, the flickering flames, the frog Rahal’s got spitted over the fire. In the silence, Rahal wonders if he should say something. The thing is, he isn’t quite sure what to say.  
  
“You wanna know why I bet on the dragon horse races?” Roog says at last.  
  
Rahal nods wordlessly.  
  
“I was trying to make some extra potch for my family.” Roog picks up a stick and jabs at the logs with it, sending embers hissing into the crisp night air. He refuses to meet Rahal’s eye. The way he speaks is grudging, as if it’s an effort to summon the words. “I was desperate.”  
  
“Desperate?”  
  
Roog’s mouth twists into something that’s half smile, half grimace. “Ma was sick. Real sick. Our doctor didn’t know what else to do. He told us, if we got her to the infirmary in Lelcar, that maybe we could save her.”  
  
Rahal’s stomach knots up as he begins to put the pieces together. A voyage like that would cost hundreds of potch, much more than a family of Roog’s status could scrape together through a year of honest work. “Did you?”  
  
“We got her to Lelcar eventually. But it was too late.”  
  
“She died?”  
  
Roog’s jaw clenches. “Yeah.”  
  
Rahal opens his mouth to apologize, but snaps it shut again. I’m sorry isn’t good enough. I’m sorry won’t take away Roog’s pain. He sees now why Roog can’t stand him. In Roog’s mind, unfairly or not, Rahal shoulders some of the guilt in his mother’s death.  
  
“I didn’t know,” he says instead. “I didn’t mean—”  
  
“You don’t have to say anything,” Roog says. He’s back to glaring, the sparks from the fire reflecting in his dark eyes. “I don’t want your apology.”  
  
“But it was my fault,” Rahal murmurs.  
  
“No,” Roog snaps.  
  
And that’s all he says. Rahal watches him from across the fire, evaluating him in a whole new light. Where once he saw a bully, he now sees a young man bent under the burden of loss, a loss he’s carried quietly over the years, incapable of letting go. That loss has festered. It’s burrowed a bitter hole deep inside of him.  
  
“My father passed away when I was nine,” Rahal says. He leans across the fire, turning the spit to expose the belly of the frog to the flames. “It was sudden, though. He died in a hunting accident.”  
  
“Sorry.” Roog shrugs.  
  
Rahal smiles and shakes his head. “I’m just trying to find some common ground. I know how it feels to lose a parent.”  
  
“Thanks for sharing,” Roog says. “Now we’re best friends.”  
  
 “I’m not asking you to be my friend. I’m only asking you to be civil for the next three days, if you can manage it.”  
  
Over the fire, the frog’s skin has gone black. Rahal pulls the spit and offers it to Roog. For a few heartbeats, Roog hesitates, licking his lips. Rahal can practically see the pride and hunger warring on his face. It’s been hours since they last ate, with plenty of riding and fighting and hunting in between. The gnawing in his own stomach is almost unbearable.  
  
But it’s also clear that Roog isn’t entirely comfortable with the concept of not hating him. For a minute, Rahal is convinced he’s going to reject this peace offering.  
  
But then Roog takes the proffered spit and tears off a strip of crispy flesh between his teeth. He hands the rest back to Rahal.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, after he’s swallowed, “I think I can manage it.”

  
**NINETEEN**

  
The Commander clasps his hands behind his back and walks the ranks. There are fewer of them now. Some have dropped out. Others, forced out. But the Commander nods as his eyes pass over them, smiles, and finally comes to a stop in front of them.  
  
“It’s been a long seven years,” he says. “You’ve worked hard. You’ve overcome challenges that would have defeated ordinary men. You’ve put your bodies and your minds through untold rigours. And now you stand here today, ready to join our ranks.” He draws his sword and turns to the cadet next to Rahal. “Kneel, and let me make you a knight of the Feitas Dragon Cavalry."  
  
A movement down the line catches Rahal’s eye. He glances over and sees Roog’s head sticking out. When their eyes meet, Roog winks.  
  
And Rahal can’t help but return it with a grin.


End file.
